With Our Crosses To Bear
by latessitrice
Summary: Outtakes from If You Were My Love, wherein the tribulations of our starcrossed lovers cause problems not just for themselves.
1. Chapter 1

**This prompt came from kiwigirl, who wanted to see what happened when Natasha got that text message in the last chapter.**

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Natasha would like one night of sleep without you complete incompetents getting up to shenanigans.**

 _Don't panic. He's with me._

Natasha stares at the text message for several long seconds, willing the words to make more sense. She blames being woken from sleep for her slow absorption of the message. It's unusual for Darcy to text her—that's not the kind of friendship they have—but even stranger for her to do so at 2 a.m.

The sudden realization of who ' _he_ ' is has Natasha vaulting out of her bed, grabbing a robe to cover her pyjamas and shoving her feet into boots. "Friday, I need you to scan the facility for the location of James Barnes."

"Certainly," the AI replies, and there's a pause while it completes Natasha's request. Meanwhile, she's tooling up, shoving ammo into the pockets of the robe and trying to get a holster strapped to her thigh. "He is in the quarters of Darcy Lewis."

Natasha's too busy cursing heavily in Russian to thank the AI. Instead, she shoots a message back to Darcy. _I'll be right there._

 _Don't bother, he's asleep. He'll get all grumpy if you wake him up, and I'll be grumpy if I have to get out of bed too._ Another message follows a moment later. _He's snuggly._

Natasha stops cursing to fire another instruction at Friday. "I need visuals on Darcy's quarters." Darcy is all too willing to believe that Barnes would never hurt her, but she's never really seen the Winter Soldier in action. While Barnes isn't the Soldier at the moment, he's not really himself either. Natasha places less faith in him, especially given the night terrors she's observed through the mirror into his custody suite.

"Privacy protocols are in place," Friday replies. Natasha rolls her eyes and switches her Starkpad on from standby.

"Who's on duty outside Barnes' suite tonight?"

"That would be Nathan Sparrow."

"Thank you. Please wake Doctors Adebayo and Neubauer and have them meet me in my office in an hour." She'd feel bad about waking them up, but the retainer they get paid by Stark really should soften the blow.

It doesn't take much work to override the privacy protocols for Darcy's room and find Bucky in her bed. He's spooning her, barely allowing any space between their bodies, but his face is visible. It's more relaxed than Natasha has seen in months. The footage isn't great, not in the dim light, but Natasha swears there's a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Darcy herself has already gone back to sleep: her fingers are curled around the arm draped over her waist. She's definitely wearing a contented smile.

"Friday, please monitor the situation in Darcy's quarters. If Barnes appears to become an immediate danger to her, say 'Отбой, сержант' and advise me immediately."

"Certainly, ma'am."

"I know Tony programmed you to call me that because it annoys me, but from now on, Natasha is adequate. No salutations."

"Understood."

Natasha deletes the recording of the footage in Darcy's quarters. It's an intimate moment, no matter how innocent, and now she's established there's no danger there, no one else needs to see it.

Initial panic diverted, she takes a moment to switch from her pyjamas into her most comfortable tac gear. Seeing her coming round the corner dressed in black should alert Sparrow to the ass-kicking he's signed up for.

Turns out, he's dumber than she realized. He doesn't even blink as she strides down the corridor towards him. He's got his back to the mirror, slumped against the door, and she groans internally. He's half-asleep.

"Friday, pull me footage of all the agents who were assigned to guard duty." She suspects some serious re-training is in order. Yeah, it's grunt duty, but they should be pretending to put some effort in. Then she stops directly in front of Sparrow, shoulders square and arms folded. "Are you missing anything?" she asks.

He's intimidated—so not a _total_ idiot—but shakes his head without even checking.

"How long is it since you looked through the mirror?" she prompts.

He shrugs. "About ten minutes. He's in there asleep."

She crooks her finger and guides him to the mirror. "Really? Are you sure?"

Sparrow points to the cot, to the hidden bulk underneath the blankets. "Look, he's right there."

Even from this angle Natasha can tell the lump isn't big enough to be Barnes. She tsks and strides back to the door, casually shoving it open and gesturing Sparrow through. He pauses on the threshold, obviously intimidated by the legend that is the Winter Soldier and whatever the on-site gossip is saying about Barnes' current mental state.

"Go inside," she orders, and he scoots into the room, with her hot on his heels. She makes a show of ripping the blankets away to unmask the mashed-up pillows, then slides the bathroom door open. There are ceiling tiles missing, a yawning void over the shower wide enough to fit Barnes' shoulders.

When she turns around, Sparrow looks like he's trying to disappear into the wall.

"Congratulations, the Hydra agent escaped because of your incompetence and murdered everyone in the facility. We're on the only survivors."

Sparrow's eyes bug out, all the blood drains from his face, and he sways against the wall. "What? He didn't move, I don't—"

"Or we would be if he was a threat to us. Luckily for all of us, Barnes was in containment as a precaution and hasn't harmed anything except your career prospects. But this is why when my instructions say, do not take your eyes off of him, _you do exactly as I say_."

Sparrow nods along, his eyes still wide and unblinking.

"You'll be required in the training rooms at 8 a.m. sharp. Dismissed," she says with a wave of her hand, hoping it manages to convey all the disdain she's feeling. "No, wait. I want a triple espresso bringing to my office. Then you can go back to your quarters and spend the night musing on your fuck up. I'll be in charge of your next training program."

He whimpers at her feral smile and scuttles away, while she waits until she can't hear his footsteps have moved out of earshot. The espresso is to fight the fatigue tugging at her. Sleep would be preferable, but she needs an emergency re-assessment of Barnes' status and she needs it before he wakes up. Getting the genie back into the bottle would be tough; yes, she can turn his programming against him, but not without losing the trust she's been building up. Instead, she's hoping they'll agree it's time he was allowed back into the real world.

She turns to leave, and a scrap of color in the midst of the white blankets and pillows catches her eye. She bends down and tugs it out of the pile, unfurling it between both hands to get a proper look. It's a cardigan, soft in feel and bright in hue—obviously Darcy's. Barnes has been sleeping with it, a treasure to keep him close to his soulmate when she isn't around. Whether Darcy knows he has it is unclear, but Natasha's mind's eyes flashes back to the image of him curled close to her.

It's something to show the doctors as Natasha explains to them why they're going to sign for Barnes' release.

If she doesn't make the cut for bridesmaid when the times comes, she's going to make sure Darcy never sleeps through the night again.


	2. Chapter 2

**This isn't an outtake anyone requested, but my brain decided to offer up a Sunday morning drabble. It's based on my own musings about soulmate logic (i.e. it's not a plot hole I swear).**

* * *

 **Barnes, Who Said You Were Allowed To Use Logic?**

"Did you ever think you got it all mixed up?"

"Huh?"

They're watching a movie, sprawled on her sofa—well, Darcy is technically sprawled on Bucky. His fingers are in her hair and the way she's got her head tucked into the crook of his shoulder means his words rumble through her. It distracts her from what he actually says.

"You. And them." He points at the screen, where a subplot involving a one-way soulmate scenario has just been shoehorned into an action movie. The poor dpctor is going to sacrifice herself at some point to save the life of her action-hero soulmate, the man who doesn't have her words on his body but who's silently pining for her anyway. His pain at her death will inevitably spur him on to win the day.

"It's not Shakespeare," she replies, "more of a grab-bag from TV tropes."

"No, I mean, the whole world seems to have got this soulmate thing backwards. If that guy's her soulmate, that means he's the perfect person for her. So why is she the one looking after him and making all these sacrifices for him?"

"I think the implication if he'll find his real soulmate after her death."

"Wait, she's going to die?"

"Oops. Spoiler. Probably."

"But my point is—all the stories are like this. And they've got it the wrong way around. So did you. You assumed that because _I_ was your soulmate, you were meant to take care of me and make sure I was happy. When really, I'm the one who was supposed to make you happy."

"I…"

"Then again, maybe the way you decided to look out for me, even when you didn't know you were my soulmate, proves you really are the perfect person for me."

"Barnes, you're making my head hurt."

"Sorry." She feels his lips press to the top of her head. "Better?"

She tips her head up so they're face to face. It's a great face. She's sure she'll never lose the butterflies whenever he's staring at her with soft, reverent eyes. "Nope."

He tries again, this time covering her mouth with his own, kissing her until neither of them are thinking about logic anymore. It doesn't take long at all.


	3. Chapter 3

**We are not using an event you can't even remember as our anniversary.**

"Happy anniversary!"

Bucky's at the door to Darcy's quarters with a bunch of tulips in his hand, dressed in the smartest suit she's ever seen him in. He's even shaved— _properly_ shaved, jawline sharp and smooth—with his hair tied back in an attempt to look like it's short. Nat probably French-braided it for him. Darcy shouldn't find it hot, but she finds everything about Bucky hot so a pretty hairstyle isn't going to put a dint in that.

She frowns at him. It's Friday—date night—so him turning up to take her out isn't unexpected. It's why she's in the slightly-too-tight cocktail dress she knows he likes. It's his words that are confusing her. "It's not our anniversary."

"Sure it is." He dips his head toward the calendar pinned onto the wall of her kitchenette. It's covered in multicolored scrawls from them trying to organize their schedules to spend more time together. "One year ago today, we met each other for the first time. No, you'll need your jacket."

She's halfway across the threshold when he stops her. She never normally needs a jacket because they don't leave the facility. "We're going outside?"

"Yep." His smile is warm but inscrutable.

"Have you got the entire team running surveillance?" she asks as she retrieves her coat from the hook by the door.

It's not that Bucky doesn't like leaving the safety of the grounds behind, it's that he's terrified of something happening to her if Hydra came after him again. It's why they've never yet gone on a date off site, but why he's okay with them going out separately. She's a non-entity in Hydra's eyes: he's personally interrogated every agent who's fallen into their hands to make sure of it.

Apparently locking someone in a room alone with the former Winter Soldier will make them spill every secret they ever had, without him so much as a raising an eyebrow.

"No, just Nat," he answers. Nat's probably more efficient than the whole team, especially given Steve doesn't come with a stealth mode. Bucky holds the coat out for her to shrug into and smoothes the collar down when she turns to face him again. His fingers brush against the exposed skin of her neck and she suppresses a shiver of delight. Despite all the time they've spent together, despite all the ways he's touched her everywhere, little moments like this still make her stomach flip with excitement. The way he fills out his suit, the way he smells—fresh and warm—and the way his mouth is lifted at one corner, like it does when he wants to make a filthy joke and reigns himself in—she can't imagine any of this will ever stop affecting her like it does.

In fact, it has enough of an effect that she forgets his first words until she's strapped into the car. "It's definitely not our anniversary. We can't use an event you don't even remember."

"I've seen it on video footage," he replies as he puts the car into gear.

"Doesn't count. Besides, that's not when we got together."

"Most people just use the date they met."

"That's because that's when most people actually become a couple. We did not."

"So what would you consider our anniversary to be?"

She chews her lip, pondering the question as he pulls the car out of the underground lot and onto the road out of the grounds. It's not quite dusk, daylight still hung in the air like a veil about to fall. "Our first date, I guess."

He shakes his head. "We'd already kissed by then. We'd already exchanged _I love you_ s. That can't be right."

"Hey, I know people who don't think it counts until you've slept together."

Even in the growing gloom, she can see the grin slant across his face. "Now there's an anniversary we're definitely celebrating. Only we aren't going out for that one."

She tuts fondly. "What about the first time we kissed, then? Since that's when we said we loved each other."

"No. When you said my words. I definitely remember that."

"You want our anniversary to be based on when you were locked up shirtless in a containment cell after being captured by Hydra?"

"I like how my being shirtless was worth a mention."

"It was an important detail!"

His smile is both teasing and delighted. "I'm sure it was."

"So my vote," she deflects, "goes to when we kissed."

"Alright, I'll accept that. For the record, I don't see a problem in celebrating multiple anniversaries."

"If you dress up like this for all of them, neither do I."

"See, I was planning on being shirtless for some of them…"

Darcy rolls her eyes. They're onto the highway and she squints at the road signs they pass. "So where are we going?"

"Brooklyn. There's a place I haven't been for a while I wanted to take you to."

She's intrigued, but doesn't ask anymore questions. He's intent on playing it coy, and she'll let him. Brooklyn is a solid enough answer for now. She's always happy to get glimpses of his past, especially the parts of his past where _he_ was happy. Instead, she settles back in her seat, fiddling with the radio until she finds a station with music she likes and he'll tolerate. She lands on Etta James backed by a big band, and entertains him with her car karaoke rendition. It helps the journey into the city fly by.

It's long since full dark by the time they reach Brooklyn, and traffic is a bitch, even with Friday helpfully guiding them on the least congested routes. Eventually they pull up outside a rather nondescript building. She figures the upper floor is offices, and the basement appears to be occupied but has no external signs up.

This doesn't deter Bucky. He turns off the engine and climbs out, gesturing for her to wait for him to get her door. It's not just chivalry, but his protective streak. She knows he's scouting for threats even as he rounds the SUV, though he doesn't turn his head. He'll have already assessed the best spots for potential snipers or henchman—the places he would have hidden in wait—and is eliminating them with that sixth sense he seems to have.

When he's happy there's no one watching them, he opens the door, holding out a hand to help her down from her seat. Her stomach lets out a loud complaint. "There'd better be food here, mister."

He doesn't reply, keeping close as he walks her to the door. She's pretty sure that if he could wrap himself around her and become a human bulletproof vest, he would. They make it to the door without incident, and then when they pass through he stands in front of her, the bulk of him shielding her from the room while he scans for threats again.

Yeah, this is why they don't go out together.

How he sees anything, she doesn't know. There are stairs leading down into the basement, which is dark and smoky. But it's not just Bucky on the lookout: he takes a second to slip a minute earpiece in, and relaxes a moment later. Wherever Nat is, she's reassured him.

There's definitely food, Darcy can smell it, and that's all she cares about right now.

Forty-five minutes and a heap of pasta later, Bucky is spinning her across a dance-floor. The bar he's brought her to has served Italian food since at least the 30s, though it's changed hands many times over the years and in his opinion, the food's improved. The dance-floor is a new addition, with Friday night swing attracting a solid crowd. Most of them are better dancers than she and Bucky are. He long ago admitted that he was an enthusiastic amateur at best, and most of that enthusiasm was channeled into holding a girl as close as he could without getting slapped, and impressing her enough to let him get even closer.

Still, they hold their own, Darcy throwing a few 70s disco moves in just to make Bucky laugh. And laugh he does, head thrown back and face crinkled up, though he's too coy to mimic her.

The music slows for a big-band ballad and he pulls her close, the mood shifting around them as everyone gathers in for a slow dance. He's gazing down at her with the smile he wears when he's about to say something sappy.

"Darcy Lewis," he begins, "how did I ever deserve you?" There it is.

She's aware of how warm he is pressed against her: one hand at her waist, the other holding her arm aloft, fingers curled around hers. Her free hand is resting on his bicep, which is too bulky for her to grip firmly. She has to tilt her head back to look into his eyes, where the pupils have swallowed the irises entirely. It could be the darkness, but they're like that a lot when he looks at her. The way they're moving together is familiar, since he likes to do this in the privacy of the common room; it was a moment like this which led them to tumbling into bed together for the first time. The sense memory and the responses it evokes in her have her shivering lightly in his arms, ready to leave the club and find some privacy.

He opens his mouth to continue, then frowns and pauses, his steps faltering. The hand at her waist slides up her back, tugging her closer as he listens to Natasha. Then he nods, gaze sweeping the crowd.

"We have to go," he tells her, using his grip to spin and guide her off the dance-floor. There's resignation written on his face.

"Is someone here?" she asks, trying not to panic but feeling her pulse begin to race anyway.

"Nat has it under control, but it wouldn't be wise to hang around."

She keeps her fingers laced with his, giving them a reassuring squeeze as they head up the stairs. "It's a shame it's over, but I had fun."

He nods, distracted by monitoring the people around them, only relaxing when they're in the SUV and pulling away from the road. Even then, his attention isn't with her, despite Friday hooking into the surveillance systems around them and confirming they aren't being followed. Darcy reigns in the urge to sigh at the way the night has ended: Bucky pushed boundaries, and this is how it turned out.

Now his foot is made of lead, and his fingers tap an impatient rhythm on the steering wheel.

"Can't even take you out on a real date," he mutters when the city is a dim glow in the rearview mirror.

"You just did," she points out, "and we had an awesome time."

"Until Hydra showed up."

"We think. We don't actually know, because nothing happened."

She watches his jaw clench while he considers his next words. "This is my life. I will never be free of them, always looking over my shoulder, and now I've made it your life too."

"I seem to remember having a big role in deciding to share that life with you," she tells him firmly. "I would rather never leave the facility again than not have you. Or worse, let you fall into their hands again."

He fails to hide his flinch at the reminder. "And I'd give my life to make sure they never lay a finger on you." It's a solemn vow, one she doesn't want to hear but can't honestly say she wouldn't reciprocate.

The rest of the drive is quiet, but at least he's quit tapping. By unspoken agreement they head up to the common room to wait for Nat, despite the fact that they're empty-handed. Darcy figures they'll be forgiven for not bringing food given the circumstances.

Only Sam is around, stretched out on the sofa watching a movie. He pauses it to grin up them, an edge of excitement there that seems a little overboard for date night to Darcy. He's about to say something before he catches sight of Bucky's expression and shuts his mouth. He looks at Darcy instead. "Hydra?"

"Probably," she confirms.

"Aw, man." He shares another look with Bucky, and she feels like she's missing something. "Why don't they just take the hint and quit?"

Bucky shrugs. "We're waiting for Nat to get back so she can tell us what happened."

Sam restarts the movie and they settle in next to him. Bucky slings an arm around Darcy's shoulder, and although the way he's fidgeting with a strand of her hair is a nervous tick for him, she finds it soothing. Honestly, she's ready to go to bed and get out of this dress—out of this goddamn bra—but they won't be going anywhere until Nat is back on base.

She arrives ten minutes after they do, hair windswept but otherwise looking like she's had a Friday evening in. Bucky is instantly alert.

"Definitely Hydra," she confirms, "but it was a coincidence as far as I can tell. Two guys we've had our eyes on for a while. They were out drinking but there's no way they wouldn't have recognized Barnes if they saw him. That's why I wanted you out of there."

"Where are they now?" Sam asks.

"Detained for questioning. I brought in back-up. We may be able to squeeze some unexpected intel from them."

They chat for a few more minutes, wrapping up the debrief, before Darcy tugs on Bucky's hand. "Time to hit the sack."

He follows her, not saying a word on the way to her quarters. It's the most somber end to any of their dates, in stark contrast to the fun they were having earlier.

She really, really wants to take the bra off, but there's something she needs to do first.

When the door is shut and locked behind them, Bucky's fingers immediately reach for the tie at the end of his plait. She stops him. "Leave it. Please." Then she crosses the room to the little speaker set her Starkpod is hooked up to. She doesn't know the name of the song they slow-danced to in the bar, but she's got an old favorite that she turns on.

"Remember this?" she asks him as the first few bars play, holding out her hand so he comes to her. It's another slow big band number.

"Sure," he replies, stepping up close and pulling her back into the position they'd been in earlier. "How could I forget this song?"

Only a few months ago, they'd danced to it together in the common room, swaying together slowly like this while tension crackled between them. They hadn't made it to the end of the song: Bucky had literally swooped her up and ran full pelt until they were in her quarters.

"Dancing like this always makes me think of that night," she tells him.

"Even in the bar?" he asks her with a raised eyebrow.

"Especially in the bar." She grins. "If we hadn't been interrupted, we were going to have to leave soon anyway."

Her words are having the desired effect: he's thoughts have been diverted towards sex. His whole body loosens, the tension leaching away, and he pulls her closer. "Is that so?"

"Even if we only made it as far as the SUV."

He moans, bending down for an all-too-brief kiss. There's a moment where it feels like he'll deepen it and take this exactly where Darcy intends it to. Instead, he pulls away and mutters, "Fuck it."

To her despair, he pulls further away, but only to drop to his knees.

Knee.

One knee.

 _Holy shit._

There's a ring in his hand, and she's missed a beat because she didn't see him get it out of wherever he's had it stashed. "Darcy Lewis," he begins again, and she realizes where his sappy words in the bar were leading. "I still don't know what I did to deserve you, but I'll do my best to make sure you don't regret it for the rest of my life. I want to spend every moment with you, and do it the way my ma would be happy about." He pauses, winces at how the words came out, but she's giggling happily. "And me, I'd be happy about it too." He scrunches his eyes closed, and she's openly laughing at him now, especially the way he curses again under his breath. "You know I'm no good with words, sweetheart. Marry me?"

She stops laughing long enough to say "Yes," then he's lifting her in the air, spinning her in circles until she's dizzy and breathless. The music is still playing, the song beginning again on a loop, and when he comes to a stop she leans against him. "Another happy memory to go with the music. Want to make it even happier?" she asks with a suggestive nod in the direction of her bedroom.

He doesn't need telling twice.


	4. Chapter 4

**Steve Rogers suspects corporal punishment is going to be involved in this discussion somehow.**

"We need to talk."

Darcy is waiting for Steve when he emerges from Bucky's room, arms folded and eyebrows knitted together above her glasses. Considering she's so much shorter than him and he probably weighs nearly twice as much as her, it's still an intimidating sight. There's steely determination in her expression, the same steely determination he'd witnessed a few days ago when she decided to cut her losses and leave the facility.

"Okay?" He cringes when it comes out as a question, his voice higher than it should be. He was expecting her to be basking in the glow of finally learning that she and Bucky are meant to be, instead of the deathglare she's aiming at him.

" _'If you want Darcy to stay, we can make that happen'_ ," she says, complete with air quotes. "Funny, I don't remember being involved in that discussion."

"But you knew you were meant to be with Bucky," he replies. "Of course you'd be staying!"

"Would have been awesome to have the chance to discuss that with my boss first though."

"I can handle Maria. Has she said something?"

Darcy tosses her hands up in the air with a strangled sound that Steve thinks might be several curse words mushed into one. "Doesn't matter! You can't just go over-riding decisions like that, not without making my boss lose any smidgen of respect she has for me."

She crooks a finger and gestures for him to follow her as she stomps away down the corridor. He doesn't even think of disobeying. She leads them to an empty office and closes the door behind him so they can have this discussion in private, taking the chair behind the desk even though this definitely isn't her office. Despite her modern clothes, Steve's reminded of all the times he faced a teacher behind a desk like this. At least this conversation probably won't end with him getting a ruler across his palm.

He braces himself for more of her anger, and instead is surprised when she crumples. Suddenly she's small again, fidgeting in the chair and picking at her nails. "This week has been one of the worst of my life," she confesses, eyes downcast, focused on a hangnail. "Hell, probably the entire month is up there. Bucky was gone, and I knew that when we got him back, it wouldn't be him. Not my Bucky." Now she does look up at Steve, and there's guilt written across her face. "He was definitely having a worse time than me—but it felt like knowing that and not being able to stop it was worse than living through it. Which is so self-centered, I know. Plus, we left it on such bad terms. Did he tell you?"

She asks the question lightly, barely hinting at whatever had occurred in the days before Bucky was taken. Steve shakes his head. "I know he loved you, and I know you had some kind of argument, but he wouldn't talk to me about it."

"Some kind of argument? Yeah, that's about right. The worst kind. Well, I was left to deal with that, knowing that when we got him back he probably wouldn't remember me. It was the only thing that made sense."

Sam's filled Steve in on the situation with Darcy's words. He feels a twinge of guilt at the way he pushed Bucky towards her for months, never realizing the secret she was hiding from them. He couldn't even blame her for keeping the truth from Bucky—Bucky would have taken it as a challenge, a way of defying the universe, and Steve knows what it's like to live without your soulmate. Peggy's words still adorn the skin of his thigh, fading away with her passing.

"You thought Hydra wiping him meant he would forget you entirely, and that's why he didn't have your words," he guesses.

She nods. "I was half right."

"But not all right," he points out. "He doesn't remember you yet, but he will. He needs you."

"I know. Which is why I'm staying." Some of her armor is back, the glint in her eye making him think maybe he is going to get a smack across the hand after all. "But you are not my captain. You do not get to unilaterally make decisions about my future without consulting me."

"But—"

"No. Did you ever think that after the month I've just had, that maybe I wanted some time out anyway? That I couldn't stand to see Bucky like this, and even with the universe's last plot twist, I had to get some space and come back to him when I was ready to cope? You've been through this before with him, and I know it hurts you too, but you're full of optimism because you know you're going to get your friend back. I'm out of my depth, and out of stamina. I'm really not sure if I've got the strength to deal with this in the way that he needs."

"I'm sorry, Darcy. We don't always get the time that we need. You've seen what he's like in there—he's like a frightened child most of the time, and you calm him. You ground him. All he needs is for you to be there."

She sniffs, and he realizes she's crying. He has a moment of panic, one where he's frozen to the spot because he is useless with crying women. They _terrify_ him, and his instinct is to bundle her up into his arms and take her to Bucky. Bucky was always better at dealing with this kind of stuff, and only the knowledge that carrying a crying Darcy into his room while he's still so lost will not end well. Steve would probably end up with broken bones.

Instead, he dredges his brain for ideas that might seem appropriate, and rounds the desk to bundle her up anyway. He just doesn't carry her anywhere.

At first she startles at the contact, before she settles in, nestling her head against his shoulder and hiccuping into his t-shirt. "Thanks," she mutters.

"That's okay. It's not been my best week, either."

"It can only get better from here, right?"

"Absolutely. Only…do me a favor, and never tell him I made you cry." He pauses to consider. "Or Natasha. I like my head being attached to my shoulders."


	5. Chapter 5

**This is teeth-rotting fluff.**

 **Happiness is like really, really good champagne.**

Bucky's not sure what wakes him. He's always sleeps lightly nowadays, but there's no sound or sense of movement in the bedroom.

Even Darcy is completely still in his arms.

Maybe it's just his mind not wanting to miss a moment of this, or sacrifice any of it to sleep. This might not be the first time they've shared a bed, tangled together without an inch of space between them, but it's the first time without a stitch of clothing between them.

He can't remember ever being this happy. Not even when she said his words, because that was an incomplete joy, hamstrung by confusion and the fresh scars of his recapture by Hydra. When she told him she loved him probably comes a close second, but being this close to her—it's indescribable. Like he's got warm bubbles of champagne running through his veins.

That she trusts him enough to sleep beside him, unguarded and vulnerable, means more than she will ever understand. He tries to pretend that he believes he is a person, a human being warped and worn by the whims of the universe, but he will never rid himself of the knowledge that he is a beast. He will never be able to clean his hands of the blood they have shed, but tonight he used them for an entirely different purpose, the callouses moving across her delicate skin with a gentleness he hadn't know he still had within him. Somewhere under the blankets are the words are on her hip, words he worshiped in an entirely new way tonight.

He never thought he would ever be warm again, that the cold would haunt him forever, the bone-deep chill as much a part of him as the metal arm. And yet, she melted that away. That's what Darcy gave to him: warmth.

It's what he sought that night he broke out of containment to find her. It what he yearned for all those nights alone, locked up and mourning for her. His arms had felt empty, even if he couldn't remember holding her, and when the memories came back to him it only made the pull stronger.

That hug, when he'd given her a birthday present and she'd wrapped herself around his torso in gratitude. The first time he'd ever held her, and the way he'd had to force himself to let her go, because Darcy wasn't his and it wasn't what she wanted.

The night she'd comforted him after the bank vault mission—the first time he'd slept so close to her, cuddled together on his sofa. Everything he'd wanted for months, and it crumbled around him hours later when he confessed how he felt. Even remembering that, the context lost while his other memories were missing puzzle pieces, and he wanted her with him. For comfort, for warmth, for peace.

All of that's in the past. He won't ever have to face not having her close to him. She is his, though not as much as he is hers. Has been for nearly as long as they've known each other, if only she'd opened her eyes to it. Will be until death forcibly wrenches him away from her.

For now, he's going to relish the effervescent joy, and soak in the contentment until dawn arrives.


	6. Chapter 6

**Someone wanted to see Bucky meet the parents...**

 **My dad is definitely not Robert de Niro**

"Seriously, my dad is not Robert de Niro. He is the _opposite_ of Robert de Niro," Darcy says into the confines of the quinjet.

"And I'm not exactly Ben Stiller," Bucky points out, pretending that he's not sweating beneath his neatly-pressed shirt. (He'd almost allowed Steve to talk him into chinos and a sweater, until Darcy had intervened and confirmed that dark jeans were fine).

"I'm amazed you've seen that movie," Natasha says. "Did you also—"

"I haven't," Steve interrupts. "Which movie? I thought Robert de Niro always played gangsters?"

"Not always, but he always plays tough dudes," Darcy explains. "And my dad is not a tough dude. What's he going to do, threaten a highly-trained assassin? You all might be able to kill somebody with a sprinkler system, but he sure as hell can't."

"Two minutes to descent," Bucky says. Below the quinjet, a patchwork of neatly manicured lawns and pastel houses roll for miles. He's aiming for the clearing in the woods that back onto the Lewis plot. The seasons have changed since the one and only time he's been here before, thick overgrowth swapped for trees stripped bare except for a handful of stubborn, shriveled brown leaves.

This will be the first Thanksgiving he's celebrated since the war. He's looking forward to the extended time with Darcy, away from the facility, and a little privacy from their friends. Of course, they'll be sharing a house with her parents, and he is a _little_ nervous at that, but Darcy's promised they'll adore him.

Nat helps him pilot the jet down into the narrow space, then they lift the cloaking. He's already unbuckled himself, striding over to where their luggage is stashed before Darcy can attempt to carry any of it herself. It's bulky, if not heavy, and he can manage it all on his own. She's got more important cargo to think about.

"Seriously?" she says, wrinkling her nose at him. "I don't even get to carry my purse?"

"Just make sure the pie makes it inside safe."

She rolls her eyes, lifting the tinfoil-wrapped plate. "One last thing," she whispers, even though he's ready to leave, then raises her voice to the other two occupants of the quinjet. "So where are you two heading after this?"

Nat only stares at them blandly, like the answer will be the most uninteresting thing they've ever heard, so they don't _really_ want to hear it, do they?

"On a mission," is Steve's response, but his ears are already turning pink, which is a dead giveaway.

"Really?" Darcy probes. "Is the mission to see how many times you can bang in one weekend?"

Steve opens his mouth to speak again, but only ends up making a strange spluttering whine, while his cheeks look like they're hot enough to fry something on. Nat narrows her eyes at them.

"Speak to no one of this."

Bucky's shaking his head at it all, striding off down the ramp and leaving Darcy to scurry along after him.

"Do you have to tease Steve like that?" he says when they're at the bottom, the ramp closing behind them. It's not really a rebuke, though, but he'd have liked a little warning about what she'd figured out.

"Yes. He knows why. Besides, I just want to see him happy."

He watches her fondly as she strides ahead, to the back door waiting in the distance. There are two figures waving from the porch. "Me too," he replies. "I know they aren't each other's soulmates, but that doesn't mean they can't be good together."

"Exactly."

They're across the lawn and Darcy's scarpering up the steps, pie held out carefully like something delicate and precious.

"Oh my, what is that?" the woman in the doorway asks. She's Darcy, but with a few inches less height and a few more decades. The years look like they've been good to her, though, even the lines on her face the gifts of smiles and laughter.

"Bucky made pie," Darcy announces proudly. "For dessert."

"He bakes?"

"Of course he does, I taught him to. You think I'd have a soulmate who _couldn't_ bake? Pfffft, it's like you don't even know me. Mom, this is Bucky."

"Ma'am," he says in greeting, with a bob of his head. "Sir." The man next to Darcy's mother has evidently been the recipient of a lot of baking in his life, his sweater struggling to fully cover his paunch. He, too, looks like he's had a happy life, even if there's a hint of appraisal behind his welcoming smile.

"He's got manners too!" the man says, holding out his hand to shake, and Bucky has to drop one of the bags onto the decking to take it. "Never thought I'd see the day, with the kids she used to bring around here."

"Hey!" Darcy protests.

"But you don't need to call me sir, Sergeant Barnes. You're my senior in a lot of ways, so Bill is fine."

"Oh my god, dad, did you just call him old?"

"Well, he was born before your grandfather—"

"—Who is asleep on the armchair in the living room,"says her mother, "please don't wake him, it's been a long journey."

"Ugh, how many people did you invite to dinner?"

"It's a family occasion, Darcy, and Bucky is part of the family now. They all want to meet him."

"I'm sure they do."

"It's fine," he cuts in. "Thanksgiving was always a busy affair when I celebrated it."

"Well, things have changed a lot since then," Darcy replies. "We don't stand on ceremony around here, but there's a lot of TV you'll have to endure."

"Darcy, why don't you get that pie into the kitchen," her mother suggests. "And then check if your grandmother needs anything." Darcy disappears with a kiss on Bucky's cheek, which leaves him squirming under her father's gaze. It's not that Bill's scrutinizing him, or seems particularly concerned at the kiss, but it feels very familiar when he's only just met them.

"I'll get the bags upstairs," he murmurs, "if you just let me know where I'm sleeping."

"In Darcy's room, at the top of the stairs."

He blinks at them. "Where's Darcy going to sleep?"

"In her room," her mother answers, as if it's obvious. "It's only a queen bed, but I'm sure you'll both squeeze in okay."

"And you're…okay with that?"

"Son, unless you want to try and fold yourself onto the sofa," says Bill, "—and let me advise you that thing is _not_ comfortable to sleep on—don't worry about it."

He nods, and hoists the bag back up, but when he glances up Darcy's mother is staring at him with a watery smile. "I'm so glad you're here. The last time she came—well, she was so different. Not her usual self at all, thinking the universe had done its best to make sure she'd never be happy. So the fact that it's all worked out for the best, and she's back to the Darcy we know, is a weight off of our shoulders."

It takes him a moment to think of the right words to respond with. "I'm glad she's happy too, ma'am. It's all I ever wanted for her."

If this is a test, he's passed it, based on the glance they exchange. "Now, less of that ma'am nonsense. I'm Martha, and you aren't carrying all those bags by yourself. Give me that purse, and Bill—Bill, grab that case!"

Bill huffs but does as he's told, taking the lightest case and stepping inside. "Hope you've girded your loins for dinner, son, because they can be a handful at times. Darcy will protect you, though. Always had a smart mouth."

"That's because she _is_ smart," he replies.

"Damn right," Bill nods approvingly. "Gets it from me—I was an engineer before I retired."

"So was I!" Martha calls from down the hallway. "And don't let him talk you into looking at that arm, his wiring was never as good as mine."

"Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, it'll be trial by fire, but don't let them give you a hard time. It's just what we do as a family."

As Bucky takes his first step inside the house, he realizes that's what he's about to become part of. For the first time in over seventy years, he's found a family again. It's one thing on a long list he has to thank Darcy for.

* * *

 **This is the end of this little universe, so I can concentrate on other stories I have on the go. It's been a fun ride, especially getting to explore these little side paths, and hopefully this satisfies those of you who wanted to see Steve and Nat got their own happy endings.**


End file.
